Write.

I have a need to write that goes beyond my somewhat rustic writing and literary abilities. I see stories unfolding in front of me, beside me while I sit in a coffee shop, the person next to me in the bus and my classmate looking out the window. These stories speak to the fibers inside my heart, to the paint splatters I call my imagination and make me promise the unfolding of their tales. Characters make appointments with my words in order to make sure their stories do not go untold, because above all else, their existence depends on my ability to find enough time in order for me to bring them into life. A skinny yet courageous librarian lost in the middle of a lost european town, a noble soldier lost in the northern borders of an until now unknown kigndom, a girl with long hair that moves every piece of my heart with her voice and those precious emerald eyes. I have made an oath to them, to myself, to my words, poor as they might be, but overall I am committed to tell of the redemptive tale that overshadows everything else, at the same that it permeates our very existence. His story, his dreams and adventures, his ever present watch over this broken, rebelious creation that He loves above everything else. This is me in a neverending quest to find these people wherever they could be, and follow them through their trials and brokeness. This is an oath taken to show others and introduce them to the many stories that revolve around me and that have honored me with making me their voice, their usher to your life and your imagination, their keeper and treasurer. Their author.

Lost in your heart.

Im lost in her heart, marooned in her rich grounds and colorful landscapes. I ventured once into the unknown that was her affection and found currents so strong that made me lose my way, made me forget my speech, my writting lost and my voice impaired. Her summer scent lured me in, her thick gold hair embraced me and now im here to stay. This is no mere shipwreck or lost expedition, this is shangri-la, this is el dorado and its mine to keep. So, to anyone who finds this, tell my friends and family im here to stay, that im more than fine, more alive than I'll ever be and more and more in love each day. Don't come looking for me, I'm already found.

All I know

Jon Mclaughlin-You're the one I Love

A new language

I can't find the words to make you understand what you're doing to me. I'm speechless, I went blank and I can't seem to remember how to write or speak again. It's as if you're teaching me a knew language one I never new of because only you spoke it and it makes me feel as if I discovered a new way to communicate I don't quite seem to figure out completely. A new language where holding your hand holds more words than Cervantes could ever think of, more images than Monet could ever think of painting, a new language where talking to you makes time stop in order to listen to you speak, where your eyes hold more beauty than all the landscapes a pilot has ever seen, where your hand in mine makes my heart race more than anything I've experienced before, where time is there for us, where the word "Rush" does not exist, a language created around you, for you but for me to figure out. And so I write, or try to, about you, about how You and I when the time was right got so far.

Deaf songs.

I wish I could print all my memories and keep them in a photo album, or better yet a scrapbook. If I could show you how I sometimes see the world and how I used to see it and how my thoughts sometimes write songs I can't sing and lyrics I don't understand, maybe if I could do this if I could show you who I really am and not the handicapped, speech impaired, blind, deaf person I sometimes appear to be. Maybe then you could see why I like you so much, if you could see the memories you create and the songs you make me sing and the poetry my heart sings in deaf, incoherent but oh so colorful words. Maybe then you and I. Maybe you. One day I will, I promise.

Garage Sale

My heart is having a garage sale. Old crushes' pictures, tarnished love letters, teenage poetry going for $10 a piece. Dead ends, what if's and painful memories are 2 for $5. After this,making space for us and our baggage and moving you in. I don't care if it's heavy, come, you can rest in here.

Fitzsimmons

This has been speaking to me for a while, this guy is insane wish someday I could write/sing/play like him. Hope you enjoy: